Chapter Text
"'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel. But I wanna try. I don't know how to feel. But someday I might. Someday I might. Think I forgot how to be happy. Something I'm not, but something I can be. Something I wait for."
- "What Was I Made For" by Billie Eilish
Chapter Fifteen
“You’re quite handsome,” Pagentrica observed with slight intrigue.
She sat in her favorite Drawing Room with Ronon. It was quieter. Less parties were held here. She remembered the days of retiring after dinner and coming to this very seat for tea and desserts. The pale blue walls were soothing. The room itself was smaller than the others, which made it less ideal for drinks, dancing, and decided shenanigans. It was, however, ideal for sitting with Ronon. Few people stopped inside here unless they drunkenly passed out on one of the couches. There would be fewer prying eyes, which were only good for a spectacle. Spectacles would normally be quite welcome, but not on this day. Not yet.
“And you’re a young thing,” she tilted her head back and forth, assessing him. She then put the tips of her fingers to her chest, “not that I’m old.” She added with a coy smile, “well, not on the outside.”
Pagentrica studied him closer, leaning in, “even on the outside I’m older than you are. How old are you?”
Ronon looked around the room, trying to make sense of the world he had walked inside. Suddenly, he wasn’t with Teyla, but the walls were blue as Lantean waters.
“Ronon…” her voice rang out in sing-song fashion.
Ronon snapped his head back over to her and grunted.
“It was my birthday,” Ronon answered.
There were too many people at his birthday party, but he kept that much to himself.
“How old did you turn?” She pressed.
He only shrugged.
“Twenty-eight? Twenty-Nine?” She leaned in further, “Thirty seasons?”
Ronon stared in puzzlement but didn’t bother verbalizing his confusion over why she was so curious. His regular indifference resurfaced.
“You’re a quiet one,” Pagentrica analyzed, briefly tutting her lips, “were you like that before you were imprisoned?”
Ronon only watched her.
“Certainly, Carson did not become enamored with you over your brains,” she looked him up and down.
Ronon’s ears perked up at Carson. He knew who that was. Carson. He felt his heart flutter in his chest. Carson was the doctor on Atlantis…but suddenly…he was also a feeling. Comfort. Ronon peered around the room. Carson. He was supposed to stay in the hospital room, but didn’t. He wanted to go on a mission, but now the mission was over.
That was, why. Right?
Right?
Scowling, Ronon didn’t remember why he had left. He didn’t know why he was in the hospital to start with or why Carson had left him. Maybe to rest? Had he been injured? Sometimes his back throbbed when he moved the wrong way…
Wasn’t he supposed to be training with Teyla right now?
Had he snuck out to train with Teyla when he should be resting? That seemed like something he would do and less like something Teyla would allow.
…
He started to shift where he sat. He didn’t like this. This room didn’t look like Atlantis. He would know. He had been on Atlantis a second ago.
He needed to go back.
He wanted to go back.
It was safe back there…
“Do you want to see Carson?” Pagentrica sensed the tension rising in Ronon’s body, his knuckles going white from clenching his fists too hard.
Ronon glanced down at his hands, “do you work with him?”
A sly smile slowly fell over her face, “I can honestly say I do.”
Ronon’s eyes darted towards the door.
“Do you want me to bring you to him?”
Ronon half-glazed expression dared to find her face. Suddenly, he remembered. Well. He thought he did, “he needs to check my stitches. Sheppard shot me.”
Pagentrica noted the dull expression that had become Ronon’s features. Interesting. Faced with discomfort, something had calmed him within seconds. He was back to saying mystifying words that held no reality she knew about. Training. Being shot.
“You really are insane. Someone should put you out of your misery. It’d be a mercy,” Pagentrica quipped. She reached over and pinched his chin between her fingertips, “It’s too bad too,” she tugged his chin, moving his jaw back and forth, “you really are a cutie.”
Ronon rocked back away from her, his skin beginning to buzz with claustrophobia.
Pagentrica smiled, “I like to play with my food before eating it. But you won’t tell anyone that. I don’t think you even know where you are, so I needn’t worry. Do you want me to bring you to Carson? I can do that---you just need to tell me something.”
Ronon bent further back towards the corner of the couch.
“Oh, stop. I won’t eat you yet,” she grinned deeply, “I just want you to tell me where you’re staying right now. Show me.”
Ronon wrapped his arms around himself.
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me where you’re staying. How can I bring you to Carson? He’s there, right?”
“Carson has his own quarters,” Ronon grumbled.
Pagentrica’s face hardened, throwing her hands up at his unkempt self, “you live on your own? In this state?”
Ronon shrugged, “I have my own quarters.”
Pagentrica inched closer to Ronon, gripping his chin harder now, “you do not live on your own!”
Ronon swallowed. Remembering the cell. The punishments. Nails removed. Hands broken. Every inch of his body wailed on. He could see the chains, feel them, around his wrists and ankles. Too secured in place to do anything.
He didn’t want to be there. Or here!
He wanted Atlantis. Back home. With his friends.
With Carson.
He couldn’t see Atlantis. He couldn’t see home. He couldn’t see anything with her in his face like this. Angry. He was in prison, wasn’t he? Punishments coming soon!
“Tell. Me. And I won’t hurt you,” Pagentrica sharply threatened, seeing the distress on his face, “I can have you whipped. I have that power.”
Ronon’s body began to shake.
“Tell me! Now!” Pagentrica voice boomed.
Ronon didn’t understand her question. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He didn’t have to do anything wrong. He just had to sit there. And they would come for him any day in that dark, dingy cell. And one of these days Carson would get him out. If he could. Carson would try to. Because they loved each other. Carson would try and get him out.
“Tell me!” Pagentrica reached back, slapping Ronon’s face with echoing force..
Ronon felt the hot, stinging pain on his cheek.
“I will have you whipped for your insolence!” Pagentrica stood up at once, glaring over him.
Ronon arms hugged himself harder, bending over himself, making himself small as he had learned to do. Less for The Guards to target.
A grin fell over Pagentrica’s face, “so easy to tatter. Like flower petals.” She reached forward and patted his head, “someone really should put you out of your misery.”
***
Running down the hallways towards the hospital wing made for a much more understandable sight than running away from it. Carson had to slow his pace to keep from looking suspicious as he grew further from the infirmary. The Citadel was giant and to go room to room could take hours. Carson saw very little choice. He couldn’t think like Ronon because Ronon wasn’t thinking like Ronon. He was thinking like a bunch of different Ronon’s over the course of years with a vulnerable, broken twist. The answer, normally, would be—where is the alcohol or fighting? One of the active ballrooms or drawing rooms would be Carson’s answer.
He explored them first, but he wasn’t shocked to find he turned up empty-handed.
If someone saw Ronon within The Citadel, it would be easy enough to explain he was getting medical care and had wandered off in his less-than-grounded mind. The problem wasn’t the explanation. The problem was what they would do to him if Carson didn’t fetch him in time.
Getting stopped several times along the way, partygoers suddenly held an appreciation for Carson due to his closeness with Kongro. Now, they wanted to show him every medical ailment, real or imagined. Patiently, he had to try and get away without being too obvious that he was dodging their company.
Taking the stairs down a floor, Carson poked his head through the hallway. It was quiet on this floor. Surprisingly so, as it was attached the grander Dining Room. Carson supposed it wasn’t used often because they were hosting less-than-eloquent gatherings each night. No one was getting together with leaders of other planets that needed to be impressed.
It was quiet, and he needed to find Ronon. He would hate to waste his time searching a floor that wouldn’t draw Ronon in…
But did anything draw him in anymore? Did Ronon know where he was most of the time? Even when The Satedan confidently thought he knew where he was, there was always a baffled look on his face.
Not wanting to take the chance, Carson slowly moved down the hallway. The light seeping in from the windows of the open rooms was dulling. Sunset was coming, and The Citadel was only going to get rowdier. The more drunk people got, the lower their inhibitions were (not that they were all too strong on this side of Ashunge, or Names for that matter), and the more danger this could put Ronon in….
Moving with brisk steps, Carson poked his head inside each room he passed, feeling his anxiety rising higher and higher.
He whipped past a room, only to do a double-take and take a giant step back.
Ronon!
Rushing into the room, he saw Ronon shivering. Arms hugging himself, tears down his face, and his body hunched over.
Moving to his side, Carson put his arm carefully around Ronon’s back instinctively, “Ronon. Ronon…Look at me. Ronon. Whit happened?”
Ronon felt the familiar sensation of Carson beside him. The old knowledge that felt like it had long since been abandoned came to the forefront of his mind.
Carson.
Carson who steadied his heartbeat and mind. Carson who read to him and made him read in return. Carson who taught him what a snow angel was one night when they had too much to drink. Carson who loved him and who Ronon loved.
And this knowledge came with stone walls.
And pain.
And hooks.
And whips.
And hot pokers.
And every foul, depraved beating he had received.
All Ronon could do was the last thing he ever was supposed to do.
Satendans don’t cry. Strong warriors. They defended.
But he couldn’t stop seeing it. Seeing the inside a cell.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t care what they did to him!
He didn’t care.
It was just his body.
It was just war.
He didn’t care.
Carson held Ronon, hugging him close, as Ronon folded into Carson’s chest and sobbed salty tears that soaked through The Doctor’s shirt. Carson rested his cheek against Ronon’s soft locks and felt a sense of relief seep through his body.
Ronon was far from cured. But crying was a start.